


Timid

by roseluu (rowanscrown)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Human AU, M/M, Shyness, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: It's kind of hard to say "you're hot" when you can hardly say anything at all.





	1. vanilla latte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herakles wants to talk to the boy who always orders the boring shit.

He always orders a vanilla latte. A skinny vanilla latte. An _iced_ skinny vanilla latte.

Herakles isn’t one for coffee. He isn’t one to care much about what goes on around him, but it’s been driving him insane as of late, keeping him up a few extra minutes at night. Because. Well, he isn’t sure why, but the guy who sits in the corner of Starbucks always, _always_ , orders an iced, skinny vanilla latte.

Or, he thinks one day, maybe he’s just looking for an excuse to glance over at him. Maybe.

After the first few weeks of his eyes straying, he decides to go to another coffee shop. This one is not even three minutes from his dorm, and while it’s not as quiet, he knows it’s for the best. But then he gets kicked out for falling asleep, and he blushes so hard his body feels like it’s on fire.

So he’s back to Starbucks. And staring at the man in the corner, who obliviously runs his pen through his notebook with his not-boring skinny iced vanilla latte. He’s small, dark hair cut into a sharp bob, and wears a pink dress shirt under a grey checkered, oversized sweater. And skinny jeans.

He would say hi, but he’s stuck in place. He’d been up for fifteen minutes last night thinking about sleeping through his art exam. And the vanilla latte man.

Yeah. He’d say hi if he wasn’t tired.

He doesn’t usually order anything. Vanilla Latte is always there before him, and Herakles chooses to sit instead of talking to the cashier, and pull out his wallet, and hand her his credit card, and take his things without dropping them. But he makes sure Vanilla latte is immersed in his notebook before shuffling to the counter. The cashier, Elizabeta the name tag reads, immediately starts talking about her wonders about when he’d finally ordering something after coming here for two years now. And he drops his wallet fumbling with it and picks it up before turning on his heel and walking out.

“You know,” Sadiq, his home wrecking, obnoxious, piece-of-shit roommate, says, “I think you have a problem. I thought you were shy, but it’s just fucking ridiculous at this point.” He’s playing video games and using Herakles’ favorite blanket to hide from the cold. “Maybe you should see a shrink or something.”

“I ought to rip your balls off,” he says. He’d only say something of the sort to Sadiq after living with him since freshman year. He’s sure he’s been cursed. “Just because I don’t like to talk to people doesn’t mean I’m retarded like you.”

“Aye! Watch your mouth when you talk to me!”

Herakles punches him. But this is a regular happening, and Sadiq punches back to return the black eye. Then Herakles sits next to him on the couch because he’s tired again. “Maybe you should actually _try_ talking to people and see if you get better at it. Maybe you’re stuck in the mindset of a baby.”

“Are you my therapist?” Herakles says.

Sadiq resumes slamming his fingers into the XBOX remote, and Herakles blocks out the resounding sounds of bullets and over-exaggerated last breaths.

“Maybe you should get a girlfriend,” Sadiq says.

“I don’t have time for one,” Herakles answers swiftly.

“ _Yes_ , you do. All you do is go to class and sleep and buy pre-made cake pops to eat alone.” Sadiq waves his elbow. “God, you’re a fucking lug. Do you even want to _ever_ get laid?”

Contrary to belief, Herakles has gotten laid plenty of times. Only twice with a girl. The rest, well, it doesn’t matter, because there’s no way Herakles would tell Sadiq that. If he told him, he’d most likely have to explain _how_ he got to the part where they didn’t have their clothes on. Herakles doesn’t like to remember that amount of sheer embarrassment.

“I don’t sleep around like you do,” he says.

“That’s no excuse. And I do not sleep around.”

“My room is right next to yours.”

Sadiq smiles. “Touché.”

He’s going to regret this later. “And besides…there’s someone, kinda cute. I mean, I’ve never talked to him, but I’d like to. And that usually doesn’t happen. But that doesn’t matter. Because I probably never will. Even if he’s cute.” He’s never talked so fast in his life.

Sadiq presses pause on his game. “ _What?_ ”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t like a guy!”

“Got a problem with it?”

“No!”

“Then why are you yelling?”

“Because I feel bad for him!”

“For who?”

“The ‘cute’ guy! The poor fucker!”

“What?” Herakles is confused.

Sadiq runs a hand over his face. “I’ve seen you try to flirt. It’s absolutely hideous. You look like you’re possessed and make everyone uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing!” He slams the control onto the table. “Now you’re going make the kid cringe to death!”

Herakles crosses his arms, because he would have punched Sadiq otherwise. “I’m not going to flirt with him,” he says.

“Oh, thank god.”

…

Ludwig is always good with these kinds of things – fucking up in social situations that actually involve humane emotion. Herakles goes to his floor and visits him, asks for some of those relationship instruction manuals, and his arms shake so badly he’s sure he’s going to drop the stack of four bricks onto his toes. He doesn’t, though, and drives to Starbucks an hour earlier than usual, falling asleep on page twenty-two in the first book – _Relationships for Dummies_. He hadn’t even gotten to the section about approaching someone.

It takes a week for him to realize he’d accidentally left all the books at Starbucks, and luckily Elizabeta has them shelved behind the kitchen.

“What do you even need these for?” she asks, setting them on the counter as if they weighed nothing.

“Oh. Um.” He searches for the words. He doesn’t want to offend her in any way. Is there a way to offend her in this kind of situation? Herakles hopes not. But knowing him he’d probably succeed. He looks to his hands, but sadly there’s no que sheet scrawled on his palm. Damn.

“Well…” Elizabeta’s eyes try to catch his, and he forces himself to stay still. Sadly, he knows his fingers are shaking and his lips are twisted back. “Oh, sweetie, don’t cry!”

Everyone in the shop swivels their heads towards him, and he out of the corner of his eye, Vanilla Latte’s head tips to look. “I-I’m not!” he says, a little too loudly. “Just allergies.”

Elizabeta seems relieved and he grimaces a smile before grabbing the books and bolting out the front doors.

He returns a week later, having slept on it, and shuffles to Vanilla Latte’s table in the corner.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s sweating, and his eyes are half-closed from lack of sleep last night hyping himself up for this. He shouldn’t care, he never cares about anything going on around him – people leave him alone for it, so everything’s fine.

Vanilla Latte’s pencil stops. Herakles sees a glimpse of sketched comic boxes in symmetric placements, filling the paper. Then Vanilla Latte looks up at him. His eyes are wide. _Wide_. His pale hands scrabble to hide his sketchbook and the Herakles sees his wrists shaking along with his hands.

“H-Hi,” Vanilla Latte says. He picks up that infamous cup wrapped with cardboard and shoves it to his mouth. “S-Sorry.”

“Oh. I – um.”

“You’re the.” Vanilla Latte stops, and his knuckles grow white as he says, “You’re the guy with the books.”

Vanilla Latte. Vanilla Latte is a lot prettier than he’d prepared for.

“Um, yes,” he says. “That’s me.”

His eyes are dark black and big under his bangs. “What can I…do for you?”

“I wanted to.” What _had_ he wanted to do? “I wanted – yes, I wanted to say hello.”

“Oh. Well, hello.” Vanilla Latte smiles.

“Oh, shit.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.” He hides his hands behind his back, aware of how large he was, towering over this man who had to be a freshman. “You’re, um, I really like.” He stops, then internally screams when he realizes he’s stopped. His face remains the same. “I like your jeans.”

“Oh?” Vanilla holds the cup closer to his mouth. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“Oh, yes.” He leans back on his heels. “So, I’ll, um, see you around?”

Vanilla Latte nods once, and had Herakles seen his smile widen? “For sure.”

Herakles walks home silently. Then smiles so wide he’s sure he’s no longer tired.


	2. roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Antonio doesn't want to be rude to his neighbor, the new angry florist.

Antonio notices him one day while he’s organizing roses.

He hardly gets much of a glance before the lanky man takes a look around, presumably doesn’t see anyone, and begins tearing the roses apart with his bare hands. This, unsurprisingly enough, startles Antonio into shuffling back into his store – his beloved antique store gifted by his parents.

He listens for a while to the shredding of petals and the muttered curses that _must_ be satanic in some way. But his voice is nice, low and grating but smooth. And nice. Antonio likes it.

But he goes back inside, hoping the man had gotten proper closure on whoever or whatever had made him angry. Antonio thinks a lot about this, and wonders if it had been himself. The flower shop is small, a little gloomy considering there were sunflowers and roses and lilies everywhere, and also very, very new. Antonio hadn’t visited the man to say hi, or welcome him to the neighborhood of shop owners, or really glanced his way. His throat bobs once that day, and that night he busies his hands in the kitchen.

He only thinks about it when he enters the floristry, standing stock still after the door shuts behind him. The bell rings softly, and the smell of soil and greenery does nothing to stop him from looking down at the brownies he’d made. He hadn’t even – what if the man is allergic? What if he hates chocolate? Jesus, he doesn’t want to give something to someone and have that awkward experience of them kindly accepting the food and throwing it away later. It always shows on the face, and God, what if he –

A door slams and sharp-footed steps come from behind one of the aisles of flowers. The man walks out, sees him, and shuffles down the wide aisle. Antonio feels his heart lurch to life and pounds in sudden, pointed, knifed thrashes against his ribcage, and suddenly he’s too hot, too sweaty, hands shaking over the plastic box of brownies.

The man’s eyes are trained on him, and Antonio wonders if he’d ever killed someone important? His throat bobs and his toes curl when the man stops in front of him, wearing a blue apron and a heavy scowl. Tanned, tall but strangely short next to him, and a foreign curl protruding from his hair, swirling above his ear. And he has gold eyes. Bright gold eyes. Antonio is suddenly very intimidated.

“Um, hi,” he says, and his voice takes on a squeaky, high pitch until he clears his throat, hopes his hair isn’t too long to obscure his eyes because the man will _know_. “I’m Antonio Carri – ” Fuck, he stopped. “Antonio Carrideo. I’m your neighbor. The uh, the one on the left. If you face away from here. The Antique Shop.”

The man raises a thin brow and folds his hands behind his back. “I’m Lovino. It’s six o’clock in the morning – why are you here?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s intruding. His eyes swivel to the ground and he forces his arms to unflex as he thrusts the box of brownies forward, jutting his fingers to Lovino’s chest. He squeaks and drops the box and squeaks again when Lovino’s hands fly to grab it. “S-Sorry!”

Lovino scrabbles purchase on the edges with his gloved hands. The gloves have little pink flowers sprinkled over them, and Antonio would have laughed if his dignity hadn’t just flown right out of his body. Lovino peers down at them. “What are these?”

“I – uh!” He quiets his voice when the man winces. “They’re brownies! I made you some last night, to welcome you to the neighborhood!”

Silence. Water trickles to the ground in shallow puddles. Lovino looks back to him. And then Antonio is sure steam begins to flow off Lovino’s face.

“Tomato!” he says, a little louder than he’d meant to. He’s smiling now, and all thoughts of his embarrassment flow straight out his ears as his own blush blooms over his cheeks.

Lovino makes a high pitched noise and his face heats even redder, if it’s possible, reaching over his ears, down to his chin, ruby at his nose, sweat beading over his forehead. His blood-red lips stutter once, gold eyes widening, and he turns. And runs away. With the brownies. That’s good, right?

Antonio is already working on a new batch two days later when he sees Lovino again. He hadn’t seen him in the mornings, has a sneaking suspicious Lovino is hiding from him. Usually he’d panic, but every time he glances at his tomato basket, his hands twist in a flurry and he begins planning what he’d to say next.

Lovino opens the door, sharp and sudden and angry. Antonio is cleaning the counter, bright-eyed and ready for the day. Lovino looks as if he wants to slaughter someone and is holding something behind his back. Antonio wonders if he’s come to kill him as revenge for making him blush.

Lovino shuffles up to the counter, eyes glancing everywhere while Antonio opens his mouth to work over the stutter threatening his lips. Then he shoves a small bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers into his face, shouts a terrified, “Fucking moron!” and bolts out the door.

Antonio looks down at the red and pink and speckled white carnations. Smiles.


	3. green eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is not a stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is actually a toned down version of a dark fic idea i had. maybe i'll write it in the future idk

Two forty-five p.m. Two forty-five p.m. is when the bell shrieks through the hallways and Alfred skids on his heels, backpack thumping against his shoulders as he finally escapes last period. He hardly pays any mind to the students in his way, walking to slow or gossiping about relationships. He ducks and spins and slithers through the crowd, ignoring his friends shouting for his attention, until he breaks through the front doors.

It takes fifteen minutes and dodging three speeding cars to get to his spot. His spot in the park across Midfield Private School – a school where kids like Alfred don’t lurk around. Too many snotty kids. Too many jeweled parents driving in their Mercedes. Too many primped pets and gold-trimmed watches. Alfred doesn’t belong in this type of neighborhood. He stands out like a sore thumb in his beat-up jeans and ratty backpack with clips of American flags pinned every-which-way.

He leans his bike against the thick-trunked tree that he’s fallen out of too often, and plops down on the black bench. From right here, he has full sight of the school’s courtyard.

Three o’clock and the bell rings. Students strut outside with their leather backpacks and glossy shoes.

And the pretty blond with the thick eyebrows sits on the bench. On the other side, of course.

Alfred wouldn’t call this stalking, per say. He’s just _really_ interested in this kid. It can’t be stalking if he knows nothing about him – he’s not going to break in anywhere or creep students out by pointing to the boy and asking about him; that would raise suspicion. It’s not stalking if you’re admiring from afar. Or on the other side of a bench.

What Alfred has deducted about the blond so far:

He walks home; he likes tea; he plays _Candy-Crush_ ; he’s quite cranky all the time; he sits on the bench for no reason.

And his tag is always untucked, under the nap of his neck. Like he’s some sort of secret punk or something, but doesn’t even realize it. It’s quite frustrating to Alfred.

It’s even more frustrating with the fact that Alfred wants to tell him. Desperately wants to tell him. Today, again, the pale white, worn tag waves at him in the autumn breeze, as if it’s mocking him. It’s not so out of place, because the blond hair is unkempt, his dark eyebrows even more so. The ugly school-colored murky green and yellow striped tie bunched around his collar doesn’t even bring attention away from his neck.

Like the tie, the words stay stuck at Alfred’s throat. The blond taps at his phone, messaging someone.

Today. Today is the day. Alfred is going to tell him.

But maybe that’d be rude to just point it out of the blue? Would it make him embarrassed? After three months of not-stalking, Alfred doesn’t want him to just flee and never even consider introducing himself. As much as he wants to see him maybe-blush, he doesn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings.

Alfred readjusts his backpack at his feet, scuffing his sneakers against the ground. He’s surprised the blond hasn’t looked at him in disgust. He isn’t exactly the tidiest and tightly-wound guy around. Even his friend Matthias is always talking him up about how he doesn’t _try_ to be messy like him, Alfred just _is_. Maybe that’s why the blond hasn’t talked to him?

The silence is too nerve-wracking, so Alfred chews harder on his gum to fill his ears. Creeping glances over to the blond isn’t sufficing his desire to talk to the kid. He feels even more like a pervert, or something.

“Is there something on my face?”

Oh, shitballs. Any sort of inconspicuous act he had disappears as his neck snaps back to the now-empty courtyard to escape the green-eyed stare burning through the side of his skull. He blew it. He’d stared too long, and now the blond knows he’s been checking him out for three months, and having way-too-heated dreams about him, and that he’s a _not-stalker_.

He glides a shaky hand through his hair, still staring forward, and the only words that tumble out of his mouth is, “W-Well…I mean, you _have_ a nice face?”

“What?”

The way he says ‘what’ is kind of funny because his thick British accent transforms it into a ‘wot’? Alfred would have laughed until he couldn’t breathe if it were any other time. It doesn’t change anything, because either way he’s still not breathing.

“It’s – It’s, uh…” This isn’t how he planned things out. From the corner of his eye, the blond’s face is blooming into a dark red color, reaching under his collar and to the tag. He’s imagined everything to be something cool and flirty, like he’d saunter over and put an arm around his shoulders and introduce himself as ‘Alfred, King of Beauty’ and then said that the blond was more beautiful than him. Or something equally as stupid.

There’s movement as the blond lifts his arm, creamy pale like it’s never seen a glimpse of the sun, and reaches towards him. Alfred’s eyes jerk to the side without his permission, leaning away as the hand stops. The blond retracts his hand and smears it over his nose, as if he’s trying to smear away the blush. It’s cute, actually. It would be even cuter if the blond wasn’t frowning like he always is.

“What are you doing?” he chokes out. Any smoothness is gone, and his face feels sweaty. The breeze stings his skin.

“Your tag is sticking out,” the blond says, blandly. Alfred hasn’t really seen him this close, the blond still leant over on his hands against the bench. His shoulders are bony and his face is more sharp and finely-boned than he’d originally thought. There’s a scatter of tiny pimples over his chin. Good, because if there weren’t any he’d be perfect and Alfred would be convinced he’s talking to a boyish goddess.

“Oh.”

“You know, we’ve been sitting on the same bloody bench for weeks now. I thought I’d be allowed to tuck your tag in.” The blond upturns his nose. Alfred would call him a snobby rich-kid if he didn’t see the laughing, green eyes. He’d imagined him with green eyes. It must be fate.

“Um, yours is sticking out, too,” Alfred says, allowing himself a brief congratulations for being so smooth. Though, his fingers are shaking slightly as he leans over, hoping the blond doesn’t notice him scooting his legs with him, and reaches to the nape of his neck to tuck his tag in. His thumb skims the pale skin, hot and slightly dewy, as he pulls away, and he smiles.

What Alfred has succeeded in so far:

Talking to the pretty blond; tucking that damn tag in; looking someone in the eye.

Bonus Points:

The eyes are gorgeous.


	4. erotica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilbert meets a quiet kid who, surprisingly enough, spends most of his time in the erotica aisle. Of course, Gilbert doesn't know this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first time in a while that i had tons of fun writing. something about this pairing just makes me laugh my ass off. i'm going to post this as it's own one-shot just for the hell of it.

If someone were to tell Gilbert Beilschmidt that he would become an avid reader in his late teens, he’d laugh in their face. And invade their vital regions just for the hell of it.

Gilbert is not a man of words, though he seems to have a never-ending supply when it comes to his close friends. If you really know Gilbert, seventy-five percent of his vocabulary are curses – made-up or otherwise – and the other twenty-five are made of crude, vulgar jokes that would make a sailor blush. So, delving into the eloquence of literature isn’t his thing, as he has trouble, and really doesn’t care about, finding a novel that he can stay awake through.

But then Antonio, who’s been trying to memorize any sappy love quote he can use to pursue his friend Lovino with, drags him off to the library. This is when he meets the cute blond boy with wide, eyes that are too innocent to be organizing and stacking books in the adult section. The _adult_ , adult section.

(Gilbert doesn’t know of this section)

Suddenly, Gilbert is interested in reading.

Now, Gilbert isn’t known to swoon people, and he also isn’t known for conjuring the best ideas in the world, so he takes it upon himself to approach the cute blond kid with wide eyes by asking him about a book he’s holding. Its cover features a woman and a man hugging, so it must be a romance novel, and it looks short enough for Gilbert to suffer through. The blond kid looks startled, and this close Gilbert can tell he’s younger than he thought he was, maybe three years younger than him, but he doesn’t mind because his eyes alone send a wave of heat coursing through Gilbert’s face.

“It’s…It’s called _Sunset_ ,” the blond says, so quiet Gilbert strains to hear (though he doesn’t risk leaning forward). His shoulders tighten, bunching up his blood red hoodie to his cheeks. “It’s about, um, forbidden love, if I remember. You…may not like it.”

Gilbert mulls over his words for a moment before deciding on, “Looks good enough. I’ve been running out of reading, so it’ll do.” The lie isn’t even somewhat difficult to pull off. Trying to play the game of subtle flirting with a boy who clearly works in a library isn’t going to start by saying he doesn’t read.

A cherry-red blush speckles over the blond’s cheeks like freckles before spreading into a blotched line, reaching his ears. “Okay. Here.”

His hands shake when he sets the book in Gilbert’s outstretched hands, and for the briefest moment Gilbert allows himself to glance up to the blond’s eyes – weirdly purple-blue – and then back down to the floor. “Thanks.” And he quickly checks out and shoves the book into his backpack before Antonio can see.

This first meeting isn’t exactly how Gilbert thought it would go. He’d imagined himself walking up with straightened shoulders and his condescending smile, spewing out clever pick-up lines and easily handing the boy his number. Not asking for some romance novel (that is weirdly sexual, are all romance novels like this?) and leaving without at least complimenting him – his hair, his eyes, his pants, his _ass_ in those pants. Really, can he be any more awkward?

When he returns, the boy is there again, this time wearing a red t-shirt with a name tag reading _Matthew_. It’s a fitting name, and something in Gilbert is bouncing just from knowing it. Still in the same section next to a cart full of old books, is Matthew, looking rushed and mussed, quickly tugging out certain books and sliding them into a new spot, then replacing the old spot with a different book.

Gilbert approaches slowly, and says, “Having trouble?”

Matthew startles, coming close to knocking his head into a shelf, and turns his head to him, eyes wide. “Oh, um. No, it’s just…” His hands yank away from the books, one resting on his stomach while the other unconsciously scrabbles for something along his neck, but stops when it comes short with nothing. “We…We, um, we have a group of guys that come in here, and mess the, um, the books up.”

His head bobs. “Why?”

The blush flushes Matthew’s face again, and Gilbert can’t help but find it adorably charming. Now in a t-shirt, he can see red creeping up his neck like a thick sweater. “Not a lot of, um, people read this, um…genre, so…”

This startles him, so much his eyes nearly leave the frayed stitch on his sleeve. “Really?”

“Yeah…It’s not a very, um, broad genre, and you can’t read it unless allowed…”

Gilbert doesn’t think much of this, and smiles. His smile always comes off wolfish, but this time he doesn’t pay mind to it, and says, “Well, obviously, they’re just not awesome enough. I finished the one you had last week, and I thought it was good.”

To his surprise, the blush flourishes darker over Matthew’s cheeks, and his eyes widen and he leans away from the shelf. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m not much of a fan of romance, but I thought it was good, even the more…intimate parts. Really…eye-opening?” he says, feeling very proud of how interested Matthew looks – he must be an avid reader of romance. It’s cute and kind of dorky, because Gilbert only knows of Antonio’s serenades and Elizabeta’s yaoi fanfiction obsession, but someone who actually appreciates the kind of writing he’d read? Pretty awesome, Gilbert can admit, even if he’d already forgotten about the plot.

“Oh, um!” Matthew wrings his hands before scanning over the shelf. His hair curtains his face, obscuring his eyes, and Gilbert’s sure his masculinity flies right out the window when Matthew tucks a golden strand behind his ear. Something shrivels then floats in his stomach. _Gott_ , this kid is even cuter than he’d originally thought. There’s little to no chance of even getting his attention, not from someone like Matthew.

Matthew slides a book off the shelf, turning it over once before stretching it out to him over the cart. Gilbert raises his gaze just to the trembling in Matthew’s (surprisingly strong) fingers and takes it from his hand. “Um, if you liked _Sunset_ , then you’ll probably like this one. Though it’s…um, it’s a bit more intense, but it’s not over-the-top. So, um, tell me…if you like it?”

Skipping erupts in his ribcage, and Gilbert realizes it’s an invitation and he’s fucking ready to answer this time: “Of course,” he says. Who _wouldn’t_ accept with those eyes Matthew owns, especially when he peaks up beneath his short lashes and thin glasses, and then glances away.

This book, however, really gets him wondering. The plot is more interesting, more than the historical forbidden romance between a noble and a peasant. The plot, though, is not the first thing that sticks out in his mind. He’s no prude, but damn, he finds himself seriously wondering, _Are all romance novels this graphic?_ But, well, he _is_ a nineteen-year-old guy with raging hormones, and he’s single, so he’s practically glued to the pages the entire time, even if it leaves him wondering why the author uses the word ‘sex’ to describe genitals, and why there was so much more description of foreplay than the characters actually having sex.

Francis spares a concerned glance to him during European History, the only course they both share this semester, and promptly snags the book from his hands. Gilbert nearly hisses.

“I feel like I’ve seen this before,” Francis says quietly, as to not bring attention from the rest of the class.

Gilbert rips the book out of Francis’ hands before he can read the back – really, the cover isn’t even conspicuous this time, it’s just a languid picture of a beach, with the unassuming title, _Redeeming_. Gilbert feels nearly smug, because no one has figured out what exactly he’s reading.

“None of your business,” he says, and shoves his nose back into the book. Francis rolls his eyes and pretends to listen to the professor while occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

Matthew isn’t in the section nearly a week later, so Gilbert takes the leisure to browse while trying not to looking creepy. Really, he isn’t surprised Matthew isn’t here. One can’t spend so much time in a section like this, especially if he works here, so maybe he won’t show up at all? Still, Gilbert waits, and it isn’t long before Matthew rolls in another cart, muttering to himself. When he spots Gilbert, he jumps in place, and falls into blushing when Gilbert smiles.

“You’re, um, back again,” Matthew says, and the wheels’ squeal as he rolls the cart between them. “Did you like the, um, the book?”

Gilbert gets a gift of very explicit dialogue and character development flooding into his head, and he fumbles with the book he’d picked up purely for camouflage. “It was really awesome – it was definitely more…intense, like you said, but it was great.” As soon as the words leave his mouth in a loud flurry – he nearly winces at how loud – he regrets them, and apparently pulls a face that has Matthew looking sullen.

“That’s good,” Matthew says, even quieter. “Though, you, um, didn’t like it as much as the first book, did you?”

Gilbert doesn’t even remember the title of the first book at this point. All he remembers is speeding through the text trying to soak in as much as he could while thinking about the way Matthew tucked his hair behind his ear with that suppressed, excited expression thinning his lips. He tells the truth, though, from what he remembers: “I’m not for one with the romance between the characters, sometimes. Not always…for me.”

Matthew cocks his head, clearly confused.

His laugh nearly breaks the calm silence of the library, but luckily no one strays back here, in the hidden section behind the mathematic textbooks – a hidden section Gilbert originally thought would shelter a couch he could sleep on. Matthew looks startled, and Gilbert is sent through the hatred of how pale his own skin is when the heat grows on his face, a stark contrast you can spot a smile away. Still, he tries to cover it up: “I think the main stream stuff is too… _main stream_ for me. Need something pretty awesome to live up to it.”

Matthew’s lips curl at the edges and hint subtle smile lines. Just from the look, Gilbert feels another rush of heat bead sweat around his nose, and his stomach ignites – is it wrong to be fantasizing about the cute blond with such a look on his face? Is it really wrong to wonder what it would feel like if he just leaned forward and kissed the unassuming, pale lips and rolled his tongue through his mouth and turned him around and pressed him against the shelf with the weirdly graphic romance novels and just –

“I’m not really here to check out books!” he blurts, then resists the urge to slap his forehead.

The expression drops, and the blush returns to Matthew’s face, and his fingers grapple at the string of his hoodie. “O-Oh,” is the only quiet (nearing a sigh) noise he makes.

Gilbert feels his mouth moving through the embarrassment that makes him want to burst: “I’m not here to check out the… _books_ ,” he repeats, and trails off.

Matthew presses a palm to his chest and fucking tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, and Gilbert feels as if his ribcage is going to burst open and his heart will fall on the floor with a wet, pounding _splat_ and suddenly he’s looking Matthew in the eye.

Matthew lets out a loud, “I have a book for you!” and wastes no time to circle around the cart to stand beside him – the closest they’ve ever been, Matthew smells like sawdust and sweet maple – and clambers his hands over the shelves before pulling out a book and nearly throwing it into his hands. Without a second to spare, he says, “T-Tell me if you like it!” and nearly peels out of the aisle.

Gilbert is strangely disappointed.

Gilbert doesn’t let people know he’s scampered into the knack of reading, and he surely doesn’t let people know it’s because of a quiet blond kid that volunteers at the library, who is making the two words _cute_ and _sexy_ go hand in fucking hand. But hell, he’s wanting to get through this book as quick as he can, even if he’s admitted to himself reading isn’t _that_ bad, to go see Matthew again. He’s made a promise to himself to at least give him his number by the end of the month.

This is how he ends up with his nose buried into the new book, _Poison_ , that Matthew nearly had a panic attack giving to him. Of course, he’s hiding it behind his German 5 textbook, which is as clear as day to be a cover-up, because he’s fluent in German, he grew up _in Germany_ – why would he need to study for it (it’s best his teachers don’t know that, of course)? On campus, it’s quiet, especially in the commons where he, Francis, and Antonio normally lounge when they’re not out picking on Lovino or Francis’ lover-enemy, Arthur, or pissing off the teachers into signing slips as fast as they can blink.

Francis doesn’t try to hide it when he stands from the couch and circles behind him, reading over his shoulder for a few seconds before humming, “I didn’t know you read erotica.”

Gilbert, the ever dunce, has only heard the word erotica to describe _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , and he mutters, “It’s not erotica, _dummkopf_.”

Francis laughs, more of a giggle, right next to his ear, languid and smug. “Oh no, _mon ami_ , that’s definitely erotica. Why, this is _Poison_ , is it not?”

Gilbert makes an indiscreet grunting noise.

“I read this a few years ago; loved the characterization, and the buildup through the sexual tension. One of my favorites.” Francis leans forward and purrs, “I didn’t know you liked this sort of stuff. You should have told me, _mon ami_ , I’m not a good friend if I can’t recommend my favorite erotica.”

“Keep your porn to yourself,” Gilbert drones, and turns the page. “It’s not erotica – it’s romance. I can tell the fucking difference.”

Francis laughs again and drapes himself over the couch, over his shoulder, and taps the edge of the book with an arrogant air. “Gilbert, dear, ‘romance’ is quite an extensive word for what your reading. You’re only what – thirty pages in? I assure you it gets wonderfully interesting. Written beautifully for a published LGBT novel, if I say so myself. You don’t see those get popular when they actually contain smut.”

“LGB – _what_?” Francis must be joking. Sure, he’s hardly through one-fourth of the book, but he’d expected another sappy, leading onto sexual, story between a man and a woman, like the others. He _can’t_ be reading gay erotica in the middle of the day, in the middle of campus with people passing by, without knowing it. Can he?

Francis smiles against his hair and kisses his temple before sitting back on the couch with Antonio. Gilbert quickly pulls his phone out for some serious googling.

Matthew hair is tucked behind one ear while organizing the upside down and mixed books. Gilbert finally pulls his eyes away from the floor to see the small sign reading _erotica_ pasted just inches above his head at the beginning of the section. _Gott_ , he feels stupid now, but way too enlightened to care. When he approaches, Matthew smiles at him with that cute, swamped blush over his ears and cheeks.

“You’re back again,” Matthew says.

He doesn’t even think about the scenes from the book that Matthew most _definitely_ read. “I am.”

“Um, did you…like it?” Matthew is hesitant with his words, and his nail picks at the peeling plastic cover of a book in his hands.

“Hell yeah I did.” He doesn’t regret the words this time, and Matthew’s blush eases and his mouth coils. Gilbert feels his entire body grow hot, and when Matthew chews on his lips before asking him some question that doesn’t even register in his head, he nearly falls to the floor in a puddle.

Fuck, he’s in love with this kid.


End file.
